That still confident individual was barely a step away from his waiting customer when O'Niel bumped into a man who happened to be crossing the middle of the aisle.
"Hey, buddy, why dontcha look where the hell you're . . . oh, sorry, Marshal I did know it was . . ."
O'Niel tried to quiet the man but it was already too late. The commotion caused Spota and his customer both to look up the aisle. They recognized the Marshal immediately.
Spota lunged forward, throwing his customer aside, slamming him hard against the metal wall of lockers. O'Niel cursed once and charged after him.
The dealer had lost any vestige of composure and was like a wild man, banging his way down the aisle without a care for who or what he bounced off in the process. O'Niel would have shouted at him to stop save he couldn't spare the wind. He muscled his way in pursuit, trying to catch up to his man without maiming any of the puzzled bystanders in the process.
Spota had no particular place to run. At the moment his sole concern was getting away from the Marshal. O'Niel knew that if the man did so there were plenty of places for him to hide within the mine complex. A clever associate would then have no trouble getting him shipped safely off the moon no matter how thoroughly O'Niel would try to check all out bound cargo.
Then it would be back, not as far as square one, but a lot further than he wanted to be. It had taken O'Niel days of patient surveillance to bring him this close to an actual exchange, to a point where he knew his man could be caught with the goods on him. He'd be damned if he were going to start all over again.
Besides, the opposition would know now that he knew what was going on. Discreet surveillance would be ten times as difficult, and he didn't want to risk that.
And there were other things to worry about. Montone's concerns were no doubt justified. O'Niel had no intention of giving the opposition a chance to regroup.
He couldn't let Spota get away.
Noise and confusion shadowed both running men. Voices rose and fell in the locker room; uncertain, worried, puzzled, frightened. Only rumor moved faster than Spota and the Marshal.
The dealer jumped onto a bench dividing an aisle, grabbing an open locker door and pulling himself up. Keeping low, he started making his way across the vast chamber by leaping from one row of lockers to the next, thereby avoiding the congestion below.
O'Niel followed, grunting with the effort as he pulled himself upward. By the time he stood atop the lockers Spota was nearly halfway across the room. The Marshal hurried after him. Spota's agility was already taking a toll.
Once O'Niel tripped and would have split his face neatly on the unyielding metal if he hadn't caught himself in time. Regaining his footing, he grimly jumped to the next aisle in line.
Spota threw himself from the last row of lockers, tore into an access corridor beyond the locker room. His eyes blazed with a mixture of fear and rage. He ran like a caged animal recently escaped.
He'd nearly reached the end of the corridor when O'Niel appeared at the other end. Clawing open the hatchway, Spota disappeared beyond without trying to close it behind him. O'Niel muttered to himself. If Spota had spent a minute trying to close the hatch, the riot gun could have cut his legs out from under him.
Leaving the hatchway unsealed after use was violation enough to haul the man in on, but O'Niel had other charges in mind. He hurried onward.
His mouth was working hard as he swallowed air. The lightweight corridor tube swayed under his weight. Only a man experienced in deep-space work could keep his balance in that jiggling passageway. Support ribs flashed by like highway signposts.
Where the hell is the bastard headed, the Marshal thought worriedly? Does he even know? They were close to the main cafeteria now, but that would be crowded as always. It was a likely, familiar place for someone to run to, but the crowd inside would make escape difficult and ditching the polydyeuth almost impossible. Spota was running wild, but not blindly.
The other corridor beyond the hatchway led to the liquid storage dome. O'Niel turned up it, praying he'd guessed right. As he entered the open hatch at the far end he had the satisfaction of seeing Spota racing along the thin inspection catwalk twenty feet above the first tank. He didn't slow to congratulate himself.
He didn't want to use the riot gun unless he was forced to. He wanted Spota in condition to chat. In any case, some of the liquids stored in the dome were chemical catalysts, others acids and volatiles used in the mine. Not a good place to throw shells around, even at a low-velocity setting.
Maybe Spota knew that also, because he showed no fear of the gun haunting his back as he started down the ladder descending the first tank.
O'Niel was now on the overhead catwalk, watching as his quarry jumped from one series of steps to the next. He hurried over the side onto the ladder.
Spota now started up the metal rungs mounting Tank Two, taking the steps several at a time in the reduced artificial gravity. By the time O'Niel reached the base of the first tank, Spota was already on the second catwalk, increasing the gap between them.
But he was running out of options. O'Niel forced himself up the stairs to the second catwalk, running as fast as he could. Starting down the second flight of rungs on the far side, Spota headed for the ground-level hatchway. O'Niel followed, almost stumbling and falling from the landing atop the tank to the floor below.
Another accessway, this one leading upward. Another hatch, then a second. Spota was not thinking anymore or he would have considered hiding somewhere. But he could only flee madly. If only he could get a full corridor ahead, get out of O'Niel's sight.
He looked back over his shoulder, gasping for air as he worked the hatchcover at the corridor's end. It opened . . . and there was O'Niel just entering the far end behind him, silent and implacable as ever. With an inarticulate cry, Spota plunged through the opening and into the bustling cafeteria, unmindful of anyone or anything that got in his way. Anger had been left behind and panic drove him now. Trays and food went flying as he bowled over a cutter, then a crane operator.
O'Niel entered the rear cafeteria portal. As he'd expected and hoped, the repeated collisions had slowed the fleeing dealer down. There was no time to stand there watching. He rushed into the dining area. He could hardly breathe. His throat was raw and his heart pounding as he stumbled red-faced in pursuit.
But Spota was tiring, too. His agility had enabled him to increase his lead over the Marshal in the open corridors and storage dome. In the packed confines of the cafeteria it was the bulkier O'Niel who had the advantage.
He hurled himself into the crowd waiting in line for food, flailing with arms and elbows. One man went down with blood pouring from his mouth, reaching angrily for his assailant. Spota was already halfway down the queue.
O'Niel was too angry and tired to smile. He was used to working his way through crowds, and knew he had gained on his quarry.
Spota glanced over a shoulder, saw the expressionless Marshal coming closer with every step. The cafeteria exit was packed with off-shift workers arriving for lunch. He looked frantically to his left, then right. There was a doorway. Anywhere unblocked, his brain shouted at him!
He vaulted the food service counter with everyone trying to get out of his way. One unlucky cafeteria server wasn't so fortunate and had the tray of steaming food she'd been carrying thrown at her head.
O'Niel leaped the counter, avoiding the injured worker lying on the ground holding her face. There was nowhere for Spota to go now except through the double metal doors into the kitchen.
Spota stumbled past the rows of microwaves, the steam tables, and cauldrons of ready-mix food. He could hear O'Niel's footsteps now.
Too late, he realized he'd closed himself in. The far end of the kitchen was coming up toward him, a maze of tubes, wiring and piping decorating the wall beyond. He wheeled around. O'Niel was nearly on top of him.
A vat of boiling water simmered nearby, awaiting the next crate of frozen vegetable soy. Groping inside his shirt,
Spota's fingers seized the vial of red liquid taped there. He threw it into the vat.
O'Niel never hesitated. He'd come too far, worked too hard for this moment to hesitate. He shoved his hand into the water, his teeth clenching around a dull groan of pain. His fingers felt the vial, closed around it. As he pulled it out he saw that the plastic had been warped but not melted. The red fluid inside still sloshed freely, uncontaminated by outside agents.
It gave Spota the seconds he needed to grab the long butcher knife and bring it down toward O'Niel's arm. The Marshal threw himself aside and the blade slammed into the metal rim of the vat.
Holding the riot gun by the barrel he swung it at Spota, who'd raised the knife to take an other stab at his tormentor. The stock caught him on the shoulder, deflecting his thrust so that the point of the knife barely pierced O'Niel's forearm. Blood instantly started to seep through the shirt.
They were close enough to grapple. O'Niel tried to get a lock around Spota's neck, but the man was as wiry as a cat. He kept lashing out with legs and knife. It was all O'Niel could do just to keep from being cut again.
This won't do, he thought exhaustedly. He brought his knee up and Spota doubled over. O'Niel rolled to this left. Spota lurched to his feet and started toward him again, waving the knife.
The riot gun went off four times in rapid succession, shattering lights, plastic utensils, and packages of food. In the confines of the kitchen the quadruple thunder was deafening.
Spota froze, the knife still ready to stab. The four blasts had struck in a circle around him, but he was untouched. The gun, however, was now pointed significantly at his forehead. The four blasts had come so quickly they'd seemed to be echoes of one.
O'Niel was kneeling on the metal, panting hard and holding the gun ready in one hand. The other arm dripped blood onto the food-stained floor.
"Think it over," the Marshal said quietly.
Spota considered the speed with which the four shots had been fired, the neat circle the four blasts had formed around him. He stood there, the knife ready, watching the Marshal. The gun hand was as steady as the dome protecting the kitchen.
Slowly, reluctantly, he let the knife drop to the floor . . .
VIII
Containment was located deep inside the jail, past the offices and the squad room. O'Niel strode down the narrow corridor, past large transparent windows on which were stenciled the words: NO ARTIFICIAL GRAVITY
Zero-gee containment was a relatively recent development in law enforcement. It's hard for a man to make trouble when he's weightless. Gravity is an ancient ally of the troublemaker. Without it, he loses confidence as well as leverage.
The cells were unpressurized, each having its own small airlock. Prisoners wore special security atmosphere suits. Instead of individual tanks, air came from a central source via long tethers affixed to each suit, that further ensured the docility of prisoners so confined. Even if you could make trouble in the absence of gravity, the comparative fragility of the air supply kept disturbances to an absolute minimum.
Several cells were currently occupied. Two fighters brooded opposite each other, unable to do more than glare through faceplate and windows. In another compartment one of the mine's more boisterous drunks was sleeping it off peacefully, floating in emptiness.
O'Niel checked them out as he made his way down the corridor, favoring his bandaged arm. There were two different dressings, one for the knife wound, another for the burn. He was glad Lazarus hadn't been on duty when he'd entered the infirmary for treatment. No doubt she would have treated him with some choice comments between the disinfectants and the bandaging.
Montone trailed after him.
"How's the arm?" His tone was subdued.
"Better. Still hurts. Where is he?"
"In thirty-seven," the sergeant informed him.
"Has he said anything?"
"Not a peep. The only time he's opened his mouth is to accept food."
"Anybody ask about him?"
Monton voice dropped to a disconsolate mumble. "No, no one. Not yet, anyway."
"If anyone does, I want to know."
Montone hesitated, ventured a weak smile. "That goes without saying, doesn't it, Marshal?"
O'Niel glanced back at him, swallowed what he'd been about to say. There was nothing he could say that would make Montone feel worse, and nothing the sergeant could say to make his superior feel any better.
They halted before cell thirty-seven. Beyond the window Spota drifted at the end of a long red tether. O'Niel automatically checked the gauge which monitored the flow of oxygen through the tube. It held steady. Then he activated the intercom receiver set on the wall between the air flow valves.
Stenciled on the window next to the small airlock was the message: CAUTION—ZERO ATMOSPHERE—OXYGEN REQUIRED
O'Niel lifted the small transceiver, spoke toward it while observing the suited figure floating inside the cell. "Spota, this is O'Niel."
The only response was the sound of steady breathing. Spota had to listen whether he liked it or not, O'Niel knew. Speaker and pickup were built into the same helmet that was supplying him with air.
"Okay, keep quiet," O'Niel said. "I'll do the talking for awhile.
"We just got the lab report back on that vial you tried to scald. It's very interesting. Want to know what it said?" Still silence at the other end of the line. "It says you were carrying four ounces of Polydychloric Euthimal. Four whole ounces.
"That's four hundred doses. That's a lot of junk for one man to be hauling around, Spota. Bad junk. Let's see . . . four hundred doses; that ought to get you about four hundred years. You won't be an old man when you finish out your sentence, Spota. You'll be dead. Even with time off for good behavior, you'll be dead. Not that your bosses could care. You're just a cipher to them. Unless we can come to some kind of mutually beneficial agreement."
When he finally spoke, Spota's voice was distorted by the low-level speaker. "I don't know what you're talking about, Marshal."
"Of course you don't," O'Niel said pleasantly. "You're just an innocent, ignorant bystander. You thought you were carrying around a vial of wine. Tell me something. How much does Sheppard pay you to market the stuff? Work as rotten as this ought to at least pay well."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
O'Niel's expression tightened, though his tone didn't change.
"You're a real tough guy, Spota. I'm impressed. You're not going to have any trouble staying in there. Most people start to go a little crazy after a few nights, though, because they start dreaming about not being able to feel the floor." He leaned against the glass and smiled so that Spota could see him clearly.
"Sometimes the tether gets knotted and a man suffocates. You tend to spin in zero-gee when you're asleep. That doesn't happen very often, of course. It's just that the thought of it sometimes keeps people up at night." He paused, letting the image soak in before continuing.
"Except, you're a tough guy, Spota. So that possibility won't bother you."
"Piss off, Marshal."
"That's what I like, Spota. Someone who's real quick with a comeback. Someone who's sharp as well as tough." He growled at the pickup.
"You know what, Spota? I'll let you in on something. I've got you nailed. I got the evidence, I got the witnesses. Never mind the assault, resisting arrest, attempting to destroy evidence, running hatchways without sealing them behind you, conspiracy and all the other little goodies you tacked onto yourself during that little jaunt through the station the other day. Those are just frosting.
"You're going to be shipped back to the main trans-Jovian station on the next shuttle and do time that makes this look like a picnic. Eventually they'll get a writ to feed you truth serum and get the answers that way."
"Admissions made under truth serum aren't admissible as evidence in court," Spota countered, sounding a little less confident.
"A jailhouse lawyer, too. Now I'm really impressed," O'Niel told him, not s
ounding impressed at all. "Technically you're right, but the boys at the main station will find some way to make it stick. They always do.
"They'll make a special effort in your case, Spota, because the stuff you're peddling kills people. That makes certain folks real mad. Oh, they'll make everything stick, all right. You're going to do time that'll make this seem like a vacation.
"And Sheppard? Sheppard will shrug and bring in a new flunky and get a little richer. So don't make a deal with me. Don't get a reduced sentence. Be real noble and take the fall. Just do your hard time while Sheppard laughs his ass off at you. I've seen it happen like that before, dozens of times. Each time you hired punks think you're doing something special. And the bosses love it, because they always come out winning." He took a deep breath.
"I've got to hand it to you, Spota. You're pretty sharp. See you around, tough guy."
He hung up before Spota could reply even if he'd wanted to. Let him simmer in his own thoughts for awhile. Maybe he'd come around. O'Niel's hand still stung from the burn treatment. He turned to Montone.
"Nobody talks to him. Nobody comes near him. I mean nobody. Do you understand?"
"I understand," was the slow reply. O'Niel headed for the exit. "Where are you off to now?"
"That's about enough hard work for one day," was O'Niel's reply. "I think I'll visit some friends . . ."
The room was large and dark, mellow with recessed lighting that enhanced the richness of the paneling on the walls. Comfortable black vinaleather furniture was tastefully deployed on the thick gray carpet. There were pictures on the walls and one isolated sculpture set on its own illuminated lucite pedestal.